


The Deep Heart

by Quixcy



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Awkward Flirting, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Love Triangles, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:17:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quixcy/pseuds/Quixcy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightmares plague Inquisitor Lavellan, where fallen cities sit in trees and the great Dread Wolf watches from a throne of bones and ash. When the Empress of Orlais is kidnapped and the Commander stricken with a debilitating poison, she must venture into the Fade to find a cure to save the shem'len she refuses to let herself love. But in the Fade she finds a city lost to all the world... with the Wolf of her nightmares waiting inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shem'len

She pulled back the bow until the string was taunt, fletching brushing her cheek.

The animal was beautiful, its coat a shimmery, beautiful black that would make such a fine cloak for the winter. The cold seasons were almost upon them, and while the rest of her clan seemed perfectly content with ram blankets and halla fleeces, but last year the halla wool and ram fur barely kept the little ones warm. Druffalo was too far to hunt and too long to take down.

The first chill would come in the next few days, and her clan needed furs.

May the Gods forgive her--if they ever found out.

The animal prowled through the woods. It was graceful in a way that she couldn’t help but admire.

Graceful like the dancers she once saw in a shem’len village outside of Kirkwall, prancing across the deadening grass as though it was made of air. She had three clear shots already. Why hadn’t she taken them?

The animal’s meat would feed her clan for the next day or so—maybe three if she stewed the bones. That was, if she didn’t tell them what the animal was.

After all, no one would want to eat a wolf.

When the animal passed behind another tree, it came out the other side into a clearing. Shafts of sunlight struck its back, making the beads of fresh rain on its fur glimmer like diamonds. Then it came to a stop and tilted its nose to the sun as though it smelled something.

She bristled, sucking in a curse.

The creature turned its head, and its eyes lit on her. Now was the time to strike it between the eyes.

A clean death. It wouldn’t even feel the pain.

But her body betrayed her, her drawn hand shaking with the weight of the readied arrow. _Fire it_ , she prodded herself. _Now._

The wolf began toward her, slowly.

_Now!_

But her fingers wouldn’t relinquish their hold. Like they couldn’t, bound to the fletching in a oath they couldn’t break. She grit her teeth, a bead of sweat rolling from her temple to her chin.

Out of the sunlight the wolf prowled, submerging itself in the shade of the great oaks that scattered themselves along the Green Dales. Its shadow flickered then. It grew. She blinked, thinking it was a trick of the light. But the shadow grew still, engorging the wolf within its darkness until only the animal’s eyes remained. Piercing. True.

_Demon_ , was her first thought.

Now her bow hand was shaking. She couldn’t even run, confined to her crouch beside a tall silver-barked tree.

The shadow grew, changed. Paws became hands, feet. Back arched, stretched. Shoulders rolled back, broadened, towered. The thing took another step, smoke giving away to flesh and bone. A man, with those same piercing blue eyes. No—elvhen, like herself. Though, his face was bare, framed by long dreadlocks the color of bark and a wild, feral look, vacant of the sacred  _vallas’lin._

He grabbed the tip of her arrow and yanked it away, taking her by the throat with his other, pinning her against the silver-barked oak. He hissed, teeth straight and startlingly white, canines slightly longer, slimmer, a remnant from the wolf that was.

“You dare raise an arrow at me, _da'assan_?” the man challenged, his voice more playful than angry. “Has your Keeper taught you naught?” His grip was sure enough that she could not move, but loose enough so she could breathe, so measured it frightened her most of all.

“ _A-abelas_ ,” she pleaded. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You did. You do. You know more than you let on, _da’assan_.” He leaned closer. He smelled like hot summer grass and rich leathers. A ropy dread slithered down his bare shoulder. There was something familiar in the point of his chin, the dimple—but she couldn’t remember. Everything felt cloudy. How did she return to the Green Dales, anyway?

Wasn’t she just on the precipice of a flying castle? Her arrow notched and ready.

Or was she with her camp? Her clan?

A coat for the winter.

Wolf furs.

It all came back to her with a cry. Hot tears stung her eyes.

The Dread Wolf came closer, his face millimeters from hers, prowling, studying, memorizing the way her face morphed from fear to utter heartbreak. His lips wavered over hers. They were soft—she knew they were soft. And cool. And powerful. They made the stars rotate around whoever they kissed.

“ _Abelas_ ,” she swallowed. “ _Abelas, Fen’Hare_ —”

He yanked her away from the tree. The woods blurred, shifted. His hands slipped off her throat, and she fell to the hard stone floor.

Frightened, she looked up. She was no longer in the woods, but a temple. Great stone wolf statues towered over her, lanterns of veilfire in their maws. Shadowy figures shifted between the statues, flickering without faces, as though they were part of a world and a time she didn’t belong to. No, this wasn’t a temple. It was a throne room. Ornate vases lined the walls, glittering with golden gems and coins, furs hung from second-story balstraudes above her, banners waving gently, pinned to branches that made up the roof.

Streaks of strange Fade-green light sliced through the limbs. One of them illuminated the left side of the Wolf God’s face as he leaned forward on his throne.

He said something slow, in El’vhan. _You sit in trial, wolf-hunter._

Fisting her hands, she rose her eyes to meet his. “My clan needed those furs.”

_Need and want are fine lines, da’assan_.

“I am not _yours_.”

He smirked. The look took her off-guard. Hadn’t she seen that before, too? Somewhere colder. Heaven? No, a _haven_ —a haven? No where was haven, not anymore. Not after…

_You are not your clan’s either._   _Tell me, do you think they would have lived if they had not sent you away?_

She squeezed her eyes closed. “Stop it.”

_Would your arrows have slain their murderers? Are your hands slick with their blood?_

“I didn’t kill—”

Suddenly, her hands felt cold. Wet. She opened her eyes, and stared down at the blood pooling around her, staining her hands like well-worn gloves. It wasn’t her blood. Shaking, she followed the line of red to a body.

Pale skin, open face, unseeing eyes. Gray hair undone out of her braid and falling into her face, vasallin worn and gray with age. A sword protruded from her back like a stake.

She gave a cry, propelling herself backwards. Sickness rose from her stomach.

The Dread Wolf tilted his head. _So it seems they are._

“I didn’t kill them!” she cried, burrowing her face in her hands. Her Keeper’s blood coated her face, left stains nothing could ever get out. Tears burned at the edges of her eyes. “I didn’t kill them! I killed a wolf! I killed a wolf and that’s all I ever did!”

_You did not kill a wolf, da’len._ Suddenly, Fen’Harel was upon her, taking her by the chin and jerking her face up so she stared into his piercing gaze. His face was pinched with hurt. _You have done something far worse, and you shall remember it._

In his free hand, he summoned an ornate obsidian blade, and caught it by the hilt.

"No, no please. Please don't, please--"

He drove it through her heart.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lavellan gasped awake. Sweat soaked through her pajamas and bed sheets. She clutched her heart to make sure it was still beating. It was, in her throat, making her nauseous. Her head began to pound. Where was she? She glanced around at the barren walls of the medical ward, and tension eased from her shoulders.

Mother Giselle looked up from a tome of the Maker. “Ah, you’re awake,” she said kindly.

“I…I think so?”

“You were having a terrible nightmare.”

She shook her head, rubbing at the stitches on the side of her face. “I don’t remember it—wait.” Her eyes widened as she remembered the flying castle, the falling rocks, the scrape across her face, and turned to the Revered Mother anxiously. “Did we defeat him? Corypheus? Is everyone else okay? What happened to—”

“Shh, shh, my child,” she quieted her, closing her book. “All of Thedas is singing of your victory, Inquisitor. You should be proud.”

“Victory…” Her voice wobbled. She looked down at her hand. “The Anchor’s gone.”

“And so is the rift in the sky. The chaos has finally reached its end, all thanks to you and your companions.”

“Are they all right?”

The Revered Mother nodded. “And I’m sure they’ll want to see that you have awakened as well.” Then she stood and started for the door, but paused. She glanced back at the her, and said in a quiet voice, “Whatever chases you in your dreams has no hold on you, my child. It is simply what it is—a dream.”

It must have been, but whatever type of dream it was, she couldn’t remember. Only the fear that shook her fingers, and the grip of a bow, and a kiss as sharp as a dagger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look at all the pretty el'vhen~
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> _Abelas_ \- I'm sorry  
>  _da'assan_ \- my arrow  
>  _Fen'Harel_ \- the wanker who deserves to wear plaid for breaking our hearts


	2. the Whole Sky

 Orange flames leapt across the stones of Skyhold from torches burning late into the humid summer air. The voices of soldiers, celebrating their hard-earned victory (and their lives, really), rebounded across the walls, rising up into the now peaceful and dark sky.

Inquisitor Lavellan sat on the steps of Skyhold, staring up at the stars. The wine in her goblet had grown warm since Varric poured it ages ago. He was no on his fifth—no, sixth, by the howls of laughter inside the main hall. And he was one of the more sober ones. 

 Iron Bull and Dorian disappeared some time ago. She’d learned not to ask where they went. Some nights she could hear them clear across the courtyard. She didn’t want to imagine what someone closer—poor Sera—heard.

 The sky was the perfect shade of night, unmarred by the Fade for the first time in what felt like centuries. The moon was so impossibly large and bright she found herself wondering if her clan saw the same—

  _Oh_.

 With a pang of hurt, she remembered. 

 It was silly how sometimes she forgot, and kicked herself for forgetting more often than not. While fighting Corypheus, there had never been a moment to breathe, to balance, to reflect. 

Or mourn. 

She never once had time for that.

And now, looking up at that giant moon, she wasn’t sure she wanted the time.

Her lips pulled into a frown as she tore her eyes away from the sky, down into her drink. Everyone else celebrated their victory, so why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she lose herself in the wine, letting the heady draught wrap around her like Keeper Deshanna’s warm druffalo blanket.

She squeezed her eyes tightly closed.

_No. Stop._ _Stop remembering. Stop thinking._

She took a gulp of wine. It was hot, and hard to swallow. She’d eaten a lot of unsavory things out in the field, but hot wine definitely took the bottom rung for Tastes She Hated More than Corypheus.

Who was dead now, so she’d have to find something to hate besides an ancient Tevinter.

_Solas_?—

No. 

Definitely not Solas. 

Oh, she hated him, but in a different way. In the way she imagined Templars hated themselves as they ate lyrium. In the way mages hated their magic, but unable to imagine life without it. Like dwarves hated the sky but could never quite stop looking at it. 

No, she didn’t _hate_ Solas. Not in the traditional way. Not in the way that made sense.  

“Careful, Inquisitor, or your face might get stuck that way,” came a soft baritone behind her. 

Lavellan gave a start as Commander Cullen sat down next to her. He’d taken off his lion furs—it was too hot for that nonsense, anyway—and opted for a simple white jerkin, cut with a low neckline so his fair chest hair spiraled through, and crimson breeches. And with him came the smell of rich spices and steely musk.

She quickly looked away. “Sorry, sorry," she murmured. "I was just, erm... thinking.”

“Obviously!” he laughed, shifting his full goblet from one hand to the other. It smelled strong, but she couldn’t quite place it. Not wine. Not _hot_ wine, anyway. “What could you possibly be thinking about? Where all to scatter the remains of that ungodly darkspawn?”

She snorted. “Oh, I was thinking of cremating him and wearing him in a little vial around my neck. You know, keep your enemies close and all that shem'len nonsense.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly what we mean.” He grinned at her. 

In the starlight, he looked so much younger, the hard creases around his mouth gone, replaced by shadows and starlight. She wondered what he looked like fifteen years ago, before he ordered the Warden to slaughter Ferelden Tower's mages, before reporting to the Circle itself, before even becoming became a Templar. 

Before the thought ever occurred. 

She wondered what kind of man he would have become, if not from all the pain that carved such hard lines around his subtle mouth. 

Just as she wondered who she would be without the Anchor. Who she was—will be. Herself? …But not. 

It had been so long since the Temple of Sacred Ashes, she barely remembered who she was before. Naive. Petty. A Dalish who made sport of sneering at shem’lens like the Commander instead of wondering who he could have been before. Or the softness of his lips, or the scrape of his stubble against her cheek—

_No, you don't think that. You still don't think that._

She rubbed at at where the Anchor used to be, trying to kick those thoughts out of her head. 

Cullen found her staring at her hand and jutted his chin toward it. “Do you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“The Anchor.”

“I…I don’t know." 

She stopped rubbing her palm, and closed her eyes. She could still see her clan in the clearing, Keeper Deshanna muttering to her old hala as she did an old friend, little ones running across the expanse of grass with leathery kites tethered to their hands, watching as they took flight.

 A place that no longer existed. 

“I’d imagine you won’t miss closing those blasted Breaches.”

“Oh, I don’t know. They were quite fun, really. You weren’t there for the majority of them, so I doubt you could understand what it’s like to find your feet over your head while a Terror cries down at you.”

“Sounds like a night in The Blooming Rose.”

She gave him a curious look.

“A whorehouse in Kirkwall.”

“Commander!” She gave an gasp. “Do your vows mean nothing?”

His eyes darkened a fraction. “More than you might think.”

She felt the hint of a blush tinge her ears, and quickly looked away, glad for the darkness. “Ah.”

The Commander moved a little closer. “Inquisitor, the entire world is an open book now. You are, quite honestly, free.”

But what was _free_? 

The Commander was bound by honor, Cassandra now bound by duty. Leliana bound by her own grief. Dorian bound by ambition. Cole bound by…by everyone else. Iron Bull bound by his exile. Sera bound by her naivety. Varric bound by all the stories he weaved. Blackwall bound by his lies.

And she…she was all of those, combined. Duty, grief, ambition, exile, wonder, curiosity, stories, lies… love.

“When you left the Order,” she began to ask, “how did you retain yourself? Who you were? Your morals? Goals? _Life_?”

He chuckled, the sound of honey and bubbling brooks. “I had friends, Inquisitor. Cassandra, Josephine, Leliana… you.”

The tips of her ears grew warmer. A friend. He called her a friend. She liked the sound of that, the comfort that came with it. Not cold, like _acquaintance._ But a friend.

The Dalish girl she used to be would have scoffed at the admission.

But now…

Hesitantly, she reached over to his hand between them on the stone steps, and weaved her long, thin fingers between his calloused ones. His eyes widened a fraction, and he glanced down at their intertwined fingers, then back up at her. The caramel color of his eyes turned warm, like honey.

“Thank you,” she whispered, meaning every syllable.

“No, thank you, Inquisitor—”

“Lavellan,” she corrected. “Please, can you call me Lavellan? It is—was—my clan name and now I…I think it should be mine. So I can remember them.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Inquisi— _Lavellan_ …” There was something beneath his stare, something sad and pitying.

She looked away. “Don’t look at me like that, Commander.”

“Cullen. We’re friends, right?”

The edges of her lips twitched up into a smile. “Cullen, then. “ 

His name felt odd against her tongue. Sweet, like fresh water and cool mountain air. She liked the way it sounded, and she liked the way her name sounded on his breath.

They sat for a long moment, listening to the revels inside. Thousands of soldiers shouting and crying, calling and casting, so loud they almost sounded like a great dragon themselves, roaring with their victory. 

After a while, he passed his goblet to her so she could have a taste. “I find that wine doesn’t always do the trick.”

She took his goblet, staring down into the murky drink within. The smell almost made her gag. “What _is_ this stuff?”

“The Bull introduced it to me. I think he calls it _Maraas-Lok_ or something.”

“Oh, that stuff.”

He barked a laugh, a rumble of thunder in his chest. “I take it he introduced it to you, too?”

In reply, she took a long drink, the liquid sliding down her throat like fire. She gasped, coughing, and handed the half-empty goblet back to him, clutching her throat. “Never gets any better!”

“Mh, I’m hoping my taste buds might go numb after the second cup or so,” he replied hopefully, and swished the drink around, as thinking men always did. “May I ask a question, Lavellan?”

“What sort of question?” The _Maraas-Lok_ burned in her belly, but it already began to make her feel comfortable. Not better, but different. She needed different right now. “You can ask me anything.”

He hesitated for a long moment. “Did you know…about the elven apostate?”

But this question wasn’t one she wanted to answer, because the answer hurt. It beat against her ribcage like doldrums, a funeral march for everything she thought he was, and everything he turned out to be. 

In reply, she drew her hand out of his.

His face fell. “I’m sorry—if you don’t want to answer, it’s fine. It was an incredibly callous question. I didn’t mean to—”

“I had a dream, once,” she began softly, rubbing her palm again where the Anchor used to be. It was a habit now, like walking in well-worn shoes. “It was before Keeper Deshanna sent me to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I remember I had followed a ram deep into the woods, but I lost its tracks before nightfall and…I guess I must have fallen asleep. I don’t remember where, really, but the Keeper said it was a place where the veil was thin— _setheneran_. I dreamt I was in a forest. It was large, endless. But there were cities in the trees. Entire cities, like the Arlathan of old. But as I wandered through the forest, I felt someone watching. Or something, really, and when I turned around I found myself against _Fen’Harel_.”

“The… Dread Wolf, right?” Cullen asked, frowning. "I'm not very versed in Dalish culture, forgive me."

She mocked aghast. "What, you don't study and tragically get wrong every major point in Dalish history?"

"Are you alluding to a certain mage we know...?"

“Perhaps," she said, trying not to smile. It felt harder with the burning in her stomach, and the way the _Maraas-Lok_ birthed clouds in her head, full of possibilities that didn’t seem as far away as before. “Our Keepers tell us stories of _Fen’Harel_ , how we must be vigilant against his wiles, how he may come and take us away in the night if we are not strong and sure in _Vir Tan’adahl_ , our goddess Andruil’s creed. But in my dreams…the Wolf was not how I imagined…”

“What happened next?” he asked eagerly, leaning in so close, she felt the heat radiating from his skin. "Did you kill it?”

She rubbed the shivers out of her arms before he could notice, training her eyes down to her feet. “No. I didn’t. I couldn’t. The Wolf kept repeating the same words, over and over. ‘ _Ma’din. Emma’u. Ma’din. Emma’u. Ma’din. Emma’u._ ’” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “‘ _You are gone. I am alone._ ’”

Cullen’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. That’s… depressing.”

She shrugged off his words. Depressing, yes, but curious still. “I didn’t understand what those words meant until recently, though. Until the Well. It was all gibberish, in a dialect I couldn’t understand, and even when I did understand it I didn’t know what it meant. But…but now I do. _Ma’din. Emma’u_.”

“Lavellan…”

“ _You are gone. I am alone._ ” Her throat tightened. Skyhold’s courtyard blurred from the tears that burned at the corners of her eyes, warmer than the heat from his skin, and so, so painful. “I loved him, Cullen. I would have plucked the moon out of the sky to stop time if it meant I could have him for one more day. One more moment.”

“But he tricked us—all of us.” Anger lit the edges of his voice. “He tricked _you_. Made you look like a fool.”

Her heart leaped into her throat. “I know.”

“And you aren’t mad? You don’t want to go after him and demand justice?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I am heartbroken,” she croaked, and wiped the tears off her cheeks. She rubbed her wet hands against her pants legs, and tried to laugh. It sounded like a hiccup. “ _Fenedhis_ , Cullen, didn’t your mother ever teach you never to make a girl cry?”

“She tried.” He drained the last of his drink, making a face. “Well, Inquisi— _Lavellan_. Andraste’s Teeth, that’s going to be hard to remember. Perhaps we should return to the party? I’m sure Sera’s doing something distasteful.”

“You’re still mad that I had to tell you why your desk wobbled.”

He cringed. “And to think—you left it wobbly for _months._ ”

“I did no such thing. You simply never asked for help.”

When he stood and offered her his hand, she took it without much of a second thought, and he pulled her to her feet. He was on a step below her, so when she stood they met at the same level, staring into each other’s faces. His wandered her face for a long moment, taking in her _vasallin,_ retracing the curve of the bows and the vines beneath her eyes, and into her hairline. Then he raised a hand, gently, and traced the markings on her cheek. His touch was like feathers, as though he could break her, or wasn’t worthy of touching her at all.

Solas had asked if she wanted them removed. Told her they were slave markings. Property rights. She still remembered his crumbling look when she declined.

No. They were hers, given to her by Keeper Deshanna. She carried her clan’s markings like she now carried her clan, a part of her. And even if they were removed, the impression and memory and oath of them would never leave her skin.

Cullen tilted forward, coming closer—for a kiss? No, he wouldn’t. He was shem’len. She was Dalish. Opposites sides of a war that would never end. Besides, she didn’t like him. Not in that way.

Not in the way she revered Solas. 

And she had too much respect for the Commander to treat him like a bandage when what he wanted was the other half of a Lover’s Knot.

But then he raised a finger and flicked it against the case between her brows. “I told you to stop worrying so much.” 

Her eyes widened. So he wasn’t—not going to—oh _Fenedhis_ she felt stupid.

He grinned. “Your face’ll get stuck that way, Lavellan. We can worry tomorrow. Leave all the politics of our fates for our future selves. After our hangovers.”

Swallowing her relief—it _was_ relief. Not disappointment. Not at all—she smiled and teased, “Are you admitting the great Commander Cullen Rutherford has _hangovers_?”

“Absolutely. And I plan on having the very worst of them tomorrow.”

She laughed despite herself. 

What he didn’t say, and what she understood, was that tomorrow was a day for quiet. Not tonight. Not when so many of her soldiers celebrated their victory—tomorrow would be the day of mourning. Tomorrow she would let the grief consume her, as the mortality of those lost in battle settled into her soldiers’ bones. But tonight she would swallow her heartbreak, and she would dream of the moon, and of the _Uthanera_ , where her ancestors danced through the never endings forests and sang of her victory, too.

They returned to the main hall, where soldiers and dignitaries alike fell rag doll around the tables and torches, spilled goblets rolling underneath chairs and underfoot, wine stains crossing the ornate rugs like playful bloodstains. Someone’s undergarments swung from an Andrastian statue’s outstretched hand.

Lavellan stepped over an Orleasian who managed to pry off every bit of his clothes except his mask, and made her way toward the small gathering of people still fighting the good fight against their wiles.

And in the middle, on a table, was Varric shouting something no one sober could understand, but no one in the main hall _was_ sober. But it sounded like…like he was challenging Cassandra to a blindfolded duel with nugs as weapons.

“What did the poor creatures do to you?” Leliana cried from her perch at the head of the table. She looked the most sober out of all of them, but Lavellan knew how well her Spymaster could hide certain truths. “If you should fight with anything, it should be your chest hair!”

A cheer arose.

Varric howled a laugh. “You just set the Seeker up for failure then, Nightingale!”

Cassandra pointed at him. “Not if I elect a champion!” She glanced around, her gaze not as sharp as she was sober, but just as challenging. Dark, roiling—like a pitiless sea.

_Fenedhis, and she’s three sheets into the wind_ , Lavellan thought, almost frightfully, and the only way she knew was because sober Cassandra would—under no circumstances—call for a champion. She was her own champion, and when voting came Lavellan was sure she’d be the next Divine.

The dwarf orchestrated an ornate bow. “Very well then, Seeker. Choose your champion!”

“I choose…” Cassandra glanced around before her gaze settled on Blackwall. Who was face-down in his tankard of ale. Blowing bubbles into it as he snored. Her shoulders fell a fraction.

“I’ll do it!” Sera crowed, leaping up into a chair. “I got itty titties but I got a behometh bu—”

Josephine wrapped a hand over her mouth before she could finish her sentence, and dragged her down again. “Ah-haha, there are some things the room would rather… _not_ see.”

“Mmhhfffmmmofffff!” the city elf complained. 

No one knew what she said, but it sounded lewd coming between Josephine’s fingers, so no one asked, either.

“Varric’s going to win,” Lavellan muttered lowly to the Commander, crossing her arms over her chest. “I mean, maybe if Dorian didn’t _wax…_ ”

Cullen handed her his goblet and pushed through the crowd.

“Cullen?” she called after him, blanching. “Cullen, what are you—”

“All right dwarf,” he said, climbing onto the table, urged on by a ruckus of cheers from his men. “ _I’ll_ be her champion.”

“Curly, you know I didn’t name you for your chest hair.”

“You’ve never seen my chest hair. So how are we going to do this, Leliana?”

The Spymaster stood, turning to the crowd. While Cassandra _looked_ the part of Divine, the redhead could act it. All fluid composer and soft arrogance. No wonder all of the men in the barracks whispered about the Divine’s Left Hand. The Shadows of Birds. The— “All right, this will be settled quite simply. The one with the loudest cheers wins. If Varric wins—”

“Because I will win,” Varric interrupted, “I get the Seeker’s room. It’s a lot bigger than mine, and I like her view.”

“Of the courtyard?” Cassandra looked downtrodden. “But I love that view.”

“Ah, you must love something to lose it! Or are you too chicken to bet now that you know the stakes?”

The black-headed woman made a face. “And if _I_ win, you’ll finish _Swords & Shields_.”

“Seeker, if I win, I’ll write you into _Swords & Shields_. But that won’t happen.” 

And then, with a perfect display of arrogance and self-love that only dwarves who knew their chest hair rivaled the great Paragons of old, he tore his vest open, popping the buttons all the way down to his belt, exposing a carpet of curly ginger hair.

And it was a sight to behold.

He spread his arms wide, relishing in the cheers from the Inquisition. If battles could be won by chest hair alone, Varric would have toppled the Paragons of old.

Leliana quieted the crowd after a moment, a smirk licking at the edges of her lips. Like she knew something. Something even the storyspinner didn’t. “Well, what a display.”

“Ah, isn’t it?” the dwarf proclaimed proudly. “Bianca likes it.”

“Which one?” one of the soldiers asked, genuinely curious. No, not a soldier. He tilted his head up slightly to look out from underneath his large hat. “ _Touching. Twirling. Feeling against the thick tresses of_ —”

With one hand still on Sera’s mouth, Josephine slapped her other one against Cole’s, and gave a nervous laugh. “I believe I shall send these two to bed now…” 

Turning them both out of the main hall, Sera fought at first, wanting to stay for the rest, but the Antivan was stronger than she looked, and manhandled her out of the room once Sera started talking about the drapes matching the carpet.

Leliana cleared her throat, clapping. “Now now! We still have another contestant. Commander?”

“No need, Curly, you can just forfeit. I need to start moving in to my new room.” He gave Cassandra a snarky grin, all teeth and slit eyes, his chest puffed out because in his mind, what could rival such ginger curls?

Lavellan had never seen so much hair in her entire life—and she had shaved many halla in her hunting career. But not that sort of hair. That was’t just chest hair. _Cut that off and Solas could have a wig_.

She giggled despite herself, because it was sad and hilarious, and she could _picture_ it! Oh, how she could picture it in her mind, and how utterly devastated Solas would look if she ever told him so. 

But Solas was gone.

The _Maraas-Lok_ in her belly kept the sadness at bay, although she could taste its saltiness at the edges of her laughter.

“Commander, if you wouldn’t mind?” the Spymaster prodded.

Lavellan remembered the stray hairs that peeked out from his white shirt, the softness of them. Her ears flamed red, leaking down to her cheeks. How come she could remember that so clearly, but she couldn’t remember what she had for dinner?

Cullen gave a short bow, his face set in stone. “Very well. You talk a big game, dwarf, but…” He began to undo his shirt, one at a time. 

The girls in the audience began to twitter with laughter. If Cullen had been sober, this wouldn’t have ever crossed his mind. She remembered the bashful look when he lost his clothes to Josephine during Wicked Grace, the mortification when she talked to him next in his study.

But his cheeks were warm, and his gaze flickering with the Quinari liquor in his blood. His fingers trailed down his shirt, unbutton one at a time.

Then he opened his shirt.

A solider who had fought darkspawn, slayed demons, stood up to Corypheus and lived, fainted. Pooled into a crumbling puddle of body parts right at Lavellan’s feet. Another _thump_ echoed in the great hall. A gasp. Someone dropped their goblet. Others dropped their jaws.

The sounds echoed in the silent hall.

There was a lion in Skyhold, and he had a beautiful mane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wondered who'd win a chest hair battle, haven't you?


	3. Barren Fields

For the majority of the morning, Anora paced the exquisite North Sunroom at Chateau Vigilate, wringing her hands nervously. More often than not, she would take her breakfast tea and biscuits in the North Sunroom, served on those darling golden-liefed plates the Teyrn of Highever gifted her a few years back.

Teyrn Cousland was a wonderful man, although he slighted himself too much for raising that ingrate, King Maric’s bastard—Alistair.

But that same _bastard_ worried her now.

After the Hero of Ferelden pardoned her father and sent him to live the rest of his days as a Grey Warden—what deplorable sort irony! The great Loghain Mc Tir serving the exact same order he abandoned in the Kocari Wilds—Alistair made off like a spoiled brat.

The last she heard, Alistair lived in a tavern in Kirkwall being all that he could be.

Namely, a drunk.

To say she dodged _that_ arrow in the face was an understatement. To think, she could have married the fool!

"But now the joke is on me," she chastised herself. "If I'd married him, I wouldn't be spending soldiers looking for the blasted nug-eater."

One of her guards, stationed at the door and looking more bored than anything else, cleared his throat to disguise a chuckle.

She whipped around to him with a glare. "Excuse you, Ser Howe."

“Forgive me, milady, I had something caught in my throat," Ser Howe replied, not bothering to disguise the lie.

Although, she hated to admit that the smug look on his face fit much better than any somber one she'd ever seen, Nathaniel Howe was infuriating in a pull-your-hair-out sort of way.

Ser Howe adjusted the sword at his side. His dark hair, grown long since she welcomed him into her company, fell over his shoulder in a braid, a stark contrast against the silver metal of his armor. "You know, you could ask the dwarf in Kirkwall—want was his name. Varley? Varmic?"

"Varric, and don't pretend as though you don't know."

“Pardon, milady, but once you've met one dwarf, you've met the whole blasted lot of them."

"And yet you would argue that the same cannot be said for the Howes."

His face hardened at the low insult. Not that she cared. She wasn't in the mood for his mouth today. She was genuinely worried that Maric's bastard was a corpse by now, shriveled up in a ditch somewhere between the Free Marches and Tevinter.

It certainly wouldn't surprise her.

Chewing on her bottom lip, she drew up the hem of her lilac-colored dress and stalked over to a small end table where an elven servant set her breakfast. She plucked a biscuit from the basket and began to nibble on it.

"Where _is_ Celene?" she fretted. "Pray tell we didn't arrive on the wrong day. Again.”

Nathaniel shrugged. His passiveness annoyed her. It annoyed her almost as much as being tardy to regularly scheduled meetings and stale biscuits, both of which attacked her this very morning. She tossed the rest of her breakfast out of the balcony window to the birds and took up pacing again, both hands on her stomach.

No, not on her stomach.

Just below.

Where a well of sorrows resided.

Her guardsman gave her a curious look. "You know, Anora…"

His voice made her pause. She closed her eyes, her name sounding like a golden song on his lips, each syllable stretched and relished. _Ah-nor-ah._

_No_ —No. She pushed the thought away, refusing to dwell on it. It would only lead down roads she could not travel.

"...Whatever's so important, I'm sure we can settle it within the country. Call a Landsmeet, or seek council from Teyrn Cousland? The nice-looking one, not the dead one."

"You mean the Hero of Ferelden."

"That would be the dead one. I'm talking about the bloke. Tall, gruff, wanted to lob my head clean off that time at one of your dinner parties. Can't say I don't blame him, but if he thinks I liked my father after all the nugshit he dragged me through—after his death no less—then that brute's got another thing coming." He paused, inclining his head in thought. "Although I almost beat him."

She hummed in response.

_Almost_ was giving Nathaniel far too much credit.

Bryce Cousland was a mountain of a man—much like his sister, the Hero. Broad, fair-haired, with more brawn than brains. The Couslands were never the most... _intellectual_ of the two Teyrns overseeing to Ferelden.

But they were the most loyal.

Though, if she had to choose between any of her counsel, she much preferred Arl Eamon to everyone else. Old, wise, his voice like a cadence when he spoke, fractured at the edges from everything he lost—his wife, his son, most of his arling, all those Blighted years ago.

The sun rose over the Frostbacks like a ripe orange. When she was just a child, she used to think the Divine sat in the sun. Why else was her throne called the Sunburst Throne? And her father let her play with her fantasy for years, thinking Divine Justinia sat among flames and light. It was far from the truth, but she much preferred her fantasy.

A timid knock came to the door.

She gave Nathaniel a motion to open it, and he did.

“Well, Orlais time must run perpetually late—"

Her words halted in her throat as she turned to greet her guest. Her face fell.

It wasn't the Empress.

It was an elf.

A strange-looking elf who stood too tall, as though fear was something he met in passing and realized it was not the monster he once thought.

Nathaniel made a move for his sword. "Excuse you, knife-ear—"

With a motion of his hand, the elf froze the guardsman in his place and welcomed himself into the room.

He was clad in a simple high-collared robe with green ribbing, leather trousers, and bare feet. Who on earth would not have shoes? His face was strong, almost harsh in the morning sunlight, his close-crop hair dark like deep oak. But his eyes—his eyes were the most curious, and most dangerous part of him, Anora knew. They were bright like a clear Ferelden sky, but beneath their hue she could see the tinge that plagued her father’s gaze—a gaze only ever given to those who saw death, and fed it.

He moved, no— _prowled_ —into the room, flicking his hand to the open door. It rattled and swung closed with a deafening _thwack_.

She stiffened anxiously, clutching the folds of her dress as she moved back toward the balcony. “Where’s the Empress? Who are you?”

“I mean you no harm, Queen Anora,” he began, his voice soft like a hush.

“If you mean me no harm, then release my guardsman.” She nudged her chin toward Nathaniel, frozen in mid-draw.

“Only if he swears not to raise his sword against me.”

“Well, how can he swear that when he can’t even speak?”

“Swear for him, then.”

She pursed her lips until they were a thin pink line. It wasn’t her creed to promise things she had no control over. Her father made that mistake, and she refused to let people say empty promises were in the Mac Tir blood.

But she needed Nathaniel, too.

Drawing herself up to her full height, her face set in determination, she made up her mind. If empty promises were in her blood…then this would just prove the point.

“Of course, I swear.”

He studied her for a long moment, considering. His face didn’t give away his thoughts. His face barely moved at all, and that worried her. Those without emotions were either possessed, or worse— _murderers_. She could take demons, but those of the more slovenly society were a little harder to banish.

After a moment, he waved his hand again, and the frost drew away from her guardsman.

Nathaniel gasped, clawing at his throat as he took a deep breath.

“You fetid Blighter—” he began, going for his sword again, when Anora cleared her throat. He begrudgingly dropped his hand away, and pointed at the elf. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

“I felt it necessary,” the elf replied.

“And I felt cold. You blasted mages and your blasted bloody spells!”

“Though it seems you are no worse for wear,” the elvhen man replied, tilting his head. “It seems you held your breath.”

“I learned from the first time back in Amaranthine. Apostates like doing that freeze-y shit. So what do you want, knife-ears?”

The elvhen man turned back to Anora, and gave a slight nod. “I come to give providence.”

“Providence?” the Queen asked curiously.

The stranger hummed in reply, circling around her to the balcony. He brushed his fingers over the balustrade, looking out over the Frostbacks. For a brief moment, she saw a flicker of something deep—longing?—in his face, before he stepped in front of the sun, and shadows grew over his faces.

Anora squinted in the light, drawing a hand over her eyes as a shield. “What providence, ser? Of Andraste? Another Blight?”

Nathaniel came up beside her, a protective shoulder forward, as though he could be a barrier between her and the elf. “If there were another Blight, we’d know. I’d know. You’re lying, elf.”

The stranger chuckled. “Must humans always jump to such nefarious conclusions? Perhaps I am lying, that much is true. I cannot give you the truth you seek to trust me, but I can implore that you give me your faith. You will need such in the days to come.”

“Why?” she asked. “What’s so terrible that we haven’t already faced? The Inquisition is at our backs—”

“The Inquisition stands for a god that has turned from his people—one that does not exist.”

“Shut your mouth!” Nathaniel snarled.

But in the elf’s voice, there was a sense of certainty. How could Nathaniel not feel it? The calm cadence of what had to be true—must be true.

How could whatever this elvhen man say _not_ be?

“Corypheus said he ventured to the Black City, and it was vacant. He, in that regard, was correct. But it was not because the the gods did not exist. It was because they were held elsewhere, beyond their control, but I am afraid that soon shall return again.”

“Free? Like—like free to go back to the city? To vanquish the darkspawn and cure the taint? To bathe the city in gold once more?” Nathaniel asked.

“No, those are obligations. I mean to say, free. Relinquished of duty, of the shackles of morality.”

“So what do you want of me?” Anora asked.

The stranger’s form began to waver in the sunlight. It began to shift and stretch and grow. His voice came from everywhere and no where, ringing in her ears like chimes. When he spoke, his words echoed as though they came from the Fade itself.

Anora was never a very religious person.

Yes, she attended the chantry. Yes, she knew the Chant of Light (Maker, guide her). Yes, she believed in some sort of higher power…

But she never stopped to take stock in what could be real, and what wasn’t. She left those sorts of wonderings to the Chantry, and to the Mothers who clucked like hens as she cursed the Maker again, and again, when the healers told her of the hollowness inside of her. The dead bulbs, the barren land, where nothing would ever grow.

Perhaps nothing grew in the first lace, but she just recently realized it.

Or perhaps this was her curse for all of her father’s sins.

Perhaps her barren womanhood was the Maker’s vengeance…

At least that’s what she used to think, before the elvhen's shadow turned great and black and foreboding. Before his form blocked the sun, blocked the sky, the mountains, the world. A shadow that grew and grew as his voice vibrated against her ribcage, shook her unbelieving heart.

He told her the future. He told her her path. He told her her fate.

And what she must do.

Somewhere behind her, Nathaniel was calling her name. Somewhere far, far behind. But the elvhen man’s presence—his voice, his shadow, his stature—was so strong, it muted the rest of the world. She heard stories about the Fade, but being without magic she could never cross herself… and yet somehow she knew it bled into the sunroom. It blanketed reality in a thick, heavy skien that made it difficult for her to breathe. It constricted her lungs, like sand in her mouth. Was this what it felt like to be drowning?

The stranger spoke words she didn’t know, but understood. They rang as clear as the highest chantry bells in Val Royeaux.

“I understand,” she whispered, her voice wavering.

“Good. _Dareth shiral_.”

Then, one by one, piercing arrows of light broke through the great shadow of the elvhen apostate, evaporating him until only the sun remained.

The next she realized, Nathaniel knelt over her, his face scrunched in worry.

“Anora…Anora, please stay with me. Anora!” With her hand in his, he rubbed circles over the tops of her knuckles almost endearingly, as if his grip was the only thing that kept her there.

In the room.

With him.

Wearily, she blinked, focusing on his handsome face. “What…what happened? Why am I on the ground?”

“You just collapsed,” he replied. “You were standing by the balcony and you just collapsed.”

Her eyebrows knit together. No, that couldn’t be right. Something had happened—hadn’t it? Something important. But for the life of her, she couldn’t remember. He helped her sit up, and led her over to her chair. A biscuit was missing. Had she eaten it?

_No_ , she never ate until the Empress arrived. It was rude. A servant must have stolen one.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Nathaniel asked, hesitant. “You look pale. We can call off the meeting if you—”

“No. I’m fine.”

“But Anora—”

“Do not address me so informally here,” she snapped, and instantly regretted the fervor she put behind her words. He hadn’t done anything to incur her wrath. He was simply worried.

He shouldn’t be—not for something as trivial as fainting. Mewlish girls in court fainted so often, there was rarely a function when at least a dozen petty little twits didn’t faint. Her father didn’t raise her to faint at the sight of men. He raised her with a strong backbone, and the level-headedness of any male heir.

So to be honest, the fainting did worry her a little, but she refused to let it show.

“Andraste’s Teeth, where is the Empress?” she muttered, leaning her head in her hand.

She just wanted to go home.

 

* * *

 

“Andraste’s Teeth! My head is pounding,” Lavellan groaned, rolling over onto her stomach. Her bed prickled her oddly. Had she tracked straw into her bed again? But then there was a snort—and a neigh. She cracked open a eyelid, and winced. The sharpness of the sunlight only made her head pound harder.

Someone cleared his throat a few feet away. “Inquisitor, fancy seeing you here.”

Horsemaster Dennet.

That explained the smell of manure.

Slowly, as her muscles protested, she sat up. Her vision spun, so she closed her eyes to try and steady herself. Or at least keep her stomach calm enough not to vomit all over Dennet’s stables.

“Rough night, lass?” he asked, leaning against the stable door. “You here, Varric in the dry well, Cullen and Cassandra—”

Her eyes popped open. “ _What_?”

“Passed out on opposite tables in the main hall,” he finished slowly.

The edges of her panic subsided. She quickly looked away, her ears prickling with a blush.

“Uh-huh.” He chewed on a piece of hay, debating.

“At least they were fully clothes.”

“In each other’s armor.”

She groaned before she could stop herself, and put her head in her hands. “This is why I don’t drink. This is why no one should drink—what happened last night, anyway? Do you remember?”

He shrugged. “No idea. I was in me room with my wife. Alone, if you know what I mean.”

_Oh_ , she definitely knew what he meant and she didn’t want to think about how many other companions were alone in rooms—or even outside of rooms. On tables, stairs, benches, the ramparts for Mythal’s sake! But she couldn’t for the life of her remember anything after her conversation with Cullen.

_Cullen._

Not Commander.

She liked the idea the more she thought about it. Well, she hated it too because oh, the things a simple name could mean!, but she like it more.

She liked it enough to be happy with how things turned out, regardless.

“Although, there’s one person we couldn’t find,” Dennet added after a moment, watching her get to her wobbly feet, and lean against the stable door.

“Who?”

“Harding. We’ve looked everywhere for…” His words trailed off as someone came out of the Requisition’s office, sneaking across the courtyard to the tavern. Someone very petite, in nothing but a helmet to cover up her parts.

Lavellan blinked once.

Twice.

Then shook her head.

“I’m going to try and stumble my way back to my room in the bloody highest tower,” she murmured, unlocking the stable door with a little difficulty, and shuffling past Dennet.

“But Inquisitor—”

The Walk of Shame. Dorian had told her countless stories about his own Walks, but she never thought hers would top the cake.

“Inquisitor, I can give you something else to wear!” he called after her.

She waved him off, making her way to the stone stairs that led up to the main hall, in nothing but her undergarments and an Inquisition helmet. And a cape. She wore a bloody cape. Captain of the Walk of Shame. Conquerer of all the drunken revelries of Skyhold.

And utterly, and completely—

Coming to a full stop on the third step up the stone steps toward the courtyard, she bent over the side and vomited her insides into the bush, startling a murder of crows. The sickness was never-ending. She emptied out the contents of her stomach, and rocked herself back and forth on the steps, bile rising in her throat again, assaulting her with dizzying nausea.

After a while, someone came down the steps to her, and sat patiently while she retched up the rest of her stomach, liver, intestines—soul. She didn’t know what _Maraas-Lok_ meant, but if it didn’t meant ‘ _The Slow Antagonizing Death of Leaking from Every Orifice_ ’ it was disastrously mislabeled.

“Inquisitor?” the sweet, sharp voice of Leliana called.

Lavellan held up a finger and rocked back on her heels, turning her face up in hopes to keep the rest of her innards from expunging. When she thought her stomach was finally settling down, she said, “Yes?”

Secretly, she wanted to know however did Leliana look so put together while the rest of the Inquisition was still on their ass?

_It must be a spymaster thing_ , she thought bitterly.

“I have some…grave news.”

That righted Lavellan pretty quickly. If it were anyone else, she might think they were pulling her leg, but she knew the spymaster enough to know when it was serious, it was serious. “What sort of grave news? What happened?” Then, horrifically, “Is Corypheus—”

“Inquisitor, the Empress is missing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this headcannon where Queen Anora and Empress Celene are BFFs and once a month they sip tea at the border of Ferelden and Orlais, rating the new recruits from 1 to Assign Him/Her to My Personal Guard. (Nathaniel obviously got a My Personal Guard).


	4. Talk Dirty

Krem leaned against the wall with a heavy sigh, tugging on the collar of his armor. Sweat pooled under his arms, dampening his binders. It was too blighting _hot._ This was a mountain—mountains weren’t supposed to be this muggy. Then again, this was Ferelden. And Ferelden was simply arse-backwards.

About _everything_.

The bridge leading in and out of Skyhold was a hundred feet down, and not another sodding soldier in sight. Of all the times to be put on guard duty, it was the night after he’d drank more than he ever thought he could. He didn’t remember half of the night. In his head were blurry images, but he couldn’t quite pull the picture together properly.

Ah, well. He probably passed out just after sundown anyway.

While all the rest of the Chargers, most of the Lieutenants, and every Circle mage from here to the Frostbacks sat in meetings to discuss whatever “emergency” had pulled them away from their duties, he was stuck out here. 

On the ramparts. 

Dodging raven shit. 

The Spymaster wasn’t keeping a single one roosted today. Ravens flew out of the high tower like black shadows, shooting off to parts unknown. 

Or known. 

Really all depended on where they were going.

He heaved another great sigh, thumping his fingers on his mail arms. Even Scout Harding was in a meeting — and she _never_ went to meetings. She always got raven messages, even standing outside the tavern. Krem had the suspicion the dwarf was working for the redheaded spy, but he wasn’t about to ask. 

Soldiers who asked one too many questions wound up bleary-eyed and drooling in their bunks the next morning. Oh, they got over it soon enough and returned to their normal annoying selves, but they’d have no recollection of even asking the questions.

Once, Krem had the stupidity to ask Bull. But the Qunari simply paused, cocked his head, and roared a laugh. No rhyme. No reason.

_Blighted Qunari,_ he thought moodily, then added. _Blighted emergency. Blighted sodding soldiers. Blighted luck. Blighted—_

“Are you going to keep dazing off, or are you going to open the gate?”

Startled, he glanced down onto the bridge. 

A tall, lanky man stood there, draped in a tattered black robe that enshadowed his face. A gust from the mountains brushed across the bridge, picking up the edges of the stranger’s cloak. Strange, intricate armor shimmered underneath. Black plated. Sharp. Gloves fashioned into silver claws. 

Veins of something blue-ish wove through the armor, but he must’ve been seeing things.

Unless the stranger was a templar, sane people didn’t wear lyrium.

“What business do you got with the Inquisitor?” Krem shouted down.

“I am a guest.”

“That tells me a lot.”

“Why I’m here doesn’t concern a watchdog.”

Krem frowned. He didn’t like the energy this stranger gave off. Hostile, but not in the “Argh, I’m a Red Templar!” sort of way—most of those were dead, anyway. 

Or dying. 

_Poor blighted basta—_

“I’m friends with the dwarf, Varric, if that will allow me passage.”

“Not really, I don’t trust the guy when we play Wicked Grace.”

“That makes two of us.” 

His lips twitching into a smirk, Krem turned from his post and circled down the guard tower to the main gate. He came up to greet the stranger on the other side, a hand on his hilt.

The man was… a lot taller than he realized.

Wait, not a man—an _elf_. A very tall, very… _gangly_ elf.

Well, Krem had seen plenty of elves in his day—he came from Tevinter after all. There were elven slaves everywhere. You could spit and hit one. And somehow—it might’ve been that he was reflecting on elves in the first place—this stranger reminded him of Tevinter.

And that just pissed him off.

“What’d you want, stranger? You’re too late, if you wanted to defeat that whole tear in the sky thing,” said the young man, assessing the stranger from head to bare feet. His eyebrows furrowed. Wait, dark armor. Uniquely plated. Custom-fit. “A fog-warrior, are you?”

“Mh. And let me guess. Tevinter? Seems like the Inquisition stooped to shit indeed.”

“Tell me about it. We got a Vint mage, though he’s not so bad once you get past his mustache.”

The stranger snorted, clearly not believing him. “So will you stand there talking, or let me in? I’ve traveled a long way.”

“So has a lot of other folk, and you don’t see them demanding—”

Suddenly, the stranger shot his hand through the lattice of the gate and grabbed him by the armor, pulling him close between the bars. The stranger’s hood fluttered away. White hair, dark eyes, a sharp face. He bared his teeth, and the strange markings on his skin began to glow—

“Andraste’s _tits_! You’ve got blighting _lyrium_ in you!”

“You’re astute,” the elf deadpanned, gripping Krem’s armor tighter, leaving indentions in the collar. He pulled his other hand back, and it began to glow that cursed blue. “Now I won’t ask again. Let me insi—”

“ _ARRRGGGHHHAAAAA_!”

A wave of searing hot energy slammed into the elf, knocking him backwards onto the bridge. Krem backed away, pulling at his armor to situate it again, as his commander came up beside him. “I had him, Boss,” Krem muttered, wounded, picking at the frayed part of his uniform. “I _just_ had this mended.”

“Serves you right. Didn’t anyone tell you Vints to never let your guard down?” Iron Bull grabbed the gate lever and slammed it down. 

The massive gate groaned as it rose, chains clinking and snapping. 

“Like you could’ve anticipated the glow-y thing,” Krem shot back. “Do you think he’s like the those sodding Templars?”

Iron Bull ducked under the gate as it clinked up, his horns barely brushing its iron teeth, as the stranger came to his senses and began to rise to his feet, pulling his sword out from its sheath. He held it out in front of him.

“I don’t want to fight you,” the elf growled.

The Bull cocked his head. “You just tried to kill one of my Chargers.”

“It wasn’t my _intention_.”

“Intention or no, if anyone’ll get to kill him, it’s be me.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Krem muttered under his breath.

The elf looked the mammoth man up and down. Krem wondered what was going through the poor elf’s head. Probably _Well, shit_. Anyone going up against the Bull probably thought that at least once. Maybe twice, if the Boss didn’t decide to be lenient.

“It surprises me that one of the _Ben-Hassrath_ would be among the _basra vashedan,_ ” the elf commented.

“Boy, you might not want to throw words around you don’t understa—” 

Before the Bull could even finish his sentence, the elf wedged his sword into the ground and swung around on the handle, slamming a foot into his face. The force of the kick knocked the large Qunari right off his feet, and sent him skidding across the bridge and into the side railing.

Krem threw his head back with a laugh. “Ah-hah! _Now_ who’s taken off-guard!”

“Lucky move,” the Boss replied, getting to his feet. He wiped the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand.

The elf plucked his sword from the cobblestones and gave it a twirl to get the excess dirt off the tip. “ _Pashaara, Ben Hassrath._ ”

The Boss chuckled. “I must admit, you’re dialect isn’t too bad…” His smile widened in the way that meant he knew something from all his training and expertise at reading people. Krem hated that look. It reminded him of the time he called Krem out for thinking the Inquisitor attractive. Which she was, but wans’t, but really was—

_Argh, Blight it all!_

“But I am not _Ben-Hassrath._ I've seen those markings before. You have the Vints written all over—”

The blunt of the elf’s blade slammed into the Bull’s mouth, sending him stumbling, as the elf swung again, aiming for the other side of his face. Krem made a move to stop him—and paused.

Iron Bull lowered his head just a fraction. Just enough for the elf’s sword to deflect against his horns. 

The sword _pinged_ away, sparks flying. 

The next the elf knew, the Bull had him by the neck and slammed him so hard into the ground, it shook the pebbles around them.

“You bitch-slap me with your sword again, and I’ll show you a good time,” the domineering Qunari rumbled. 

“ _As-eb vashe-qalab_!” the elf spat.

The Bull sank lower, their faces almost touching, and whispered something that made the gangly warrior’s cheeks heat red. While Krem couldn’t hear it, he could read his boss’s lips. 

“ _Taarsidath-an halsaam._ "

Strangely embarrassed, the stranger looked away. 

Reading lips was a specialty of Krem’s. From all the years in the service, having to always look over his shoulder as he wrapped his chest and fastened on his armor, putting on a face that was his and yet wasn’t—not really—you get good at hearing silent things. 

Especially when people talked behind your back.

His talent paid off when he read the lips of the new healer who had promised, in a stuttering, pining whisper, that he would keep his secret. He would keep his secret, but at a cost. _Just five minutes, aye? You o-owe me this, for y-y-your sins—_

A sharp, rolling voice cut through his thoughts.

“Bull! Get off of our delegate at _once_!”

The Iron Bull heaved a sigh and eased back so he crouched down, squatting over the elf’s middle. He turned his head toward the woman in question, and grinned. “Ah, Josie! This one of yours?”

“He most certainly is,” she snapped, flapping her hands to shoo him off the elf. 

Lazily, the Bull got up, grabbing his cleaver on the ground, and returned it to its sheath on his back. “He was giving Krem a hard time.”

“Was _not_ ,” the elf snapped, ignoring Josephine’s hand as he stood, brushing the dirt off his armor. “I thought you said they were expecting me, Lady Montilyet.”

“Forgive us, it has been a… taxing morning.”

“Hmm.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment. 

Krem crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the side of the gate. Taxing morning his _arse_. What was so taxing about it? It’d be fine and dandy if someone clued him in, but oh no, just leave the poor guy guarding the gate in the dark about _everything_.

The elf cleared his throat, and Lady Montilyet gave a start. “Oh, where are my manners? Please, come this way. The Inquisitor is in a meeting with her advisors—myself included. Tell me, was the journey taxing?”

“I’m not one for small-talk, milady,” the elf replied in his raspy, deep baritone. 

They passed Krem and the Iron Bull without so much as a second glance—until, to Krem’s surprise, the elf glanced back, narrowing a glare at the Qunari that would’ve blackened the Golden City all over again. Josephine led him up the stairs to the courtyard, then into the the keep.

Krem gave a loud sigh. “Go on, Boss. You know you want to ask it.”

The Bull came to a stop beside him. “How long do you think that elf’d last?”

“Depends on how tightly you tied him up.”

Iron Bull threw back his head in a roaring laugh, and slammed a hand against Krem’s back, knocking the air out of him. “You’re not so bad for a Vint!”

“You keep saying that.” 

“Maybe you should look into getting some lay while things are quiet.” 

“You don’t think things will be for long?”

The Qunari tilted his head. The steel thorns inlayed into his eyepatch glimmered in the midday sun. “No. When you try to bring order to a people, it only breeds more chaos.”

“Something happened, then.”

“Mmh. The Empress is missing. Someone stole her right from under everyone’s noses. She was supposed to meet with Queen Anora of Ferelden for tea and crumpets, or whatever nobles do, but she never arrived. The Queen claims there was nothing amiss, nothing out of the ordinary. The Empress simply never showed up.”

“You don’t think the Queen…”

“I wouldn’t rule out anything.”

“Oh, come on, Boss. Even if Ferelden _did_ conquer, it’d be like handing one of those miniature cakes to a dog—and the dog _hates_ cakes.”

“ _Petit fours_ , don’t pretend you don’t know.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Don’t underestimate Ferelden, or the Queen, Krem. She does have traitor blood.”

“And you have horns. That doesn’t mean you breathe fire, Boss.”

“…Valid point.” He drummed his fingers on his bicep. “But still, I know you Vints like trying to be gods — go find your own _hissra_ for a while. Might take the crease outta your brow.”

Krem felt the wrinkles between his furrowed brow and frowned, watching his leader saunter up the stone steps to the tavern.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QUNLAT VOCABULARY
> 
> Parshaara - enough  
> Maraas imekari - a child bleating without meaning  
> As-eb vashe-qalab! - This is Bullshit!  
> Taarsidath-an halsaam - i will bring myself sexual pleasure, while thinking about this with great respect.  
> Hissra - illusion, also refers to a deity or god  
> Basra Vashedan - trash / people not of the Qun
> 
>  
> 
> So! Anyone care to take a gander who that elf is? *coughcough*


End file.
